Dying in America
by Larissa3
Summary: Mark receives some bad news...::winces:: Don't hurt me!!Chapter 2 now up!
1. Default Chapter

A/N: I never thought I'd write this story, but I've always been curious about this aspect of M/R, and I can't remember it ever being explored before. I'm sorry! Especially to Mark, but to everyone who reads it as well. I'll have the next chapter of SFAS up soon, and that should be more cheerful than this. Actually, no, it won't. But the ending of it will be, I promise!--Larissa

Dying in America

By Larissa

I got the test results back today. I knew what they'd be before the doctor even opened his mouth. I could kiss my fortieth birthday goodbye, and probably my thirtieth as well. The drugs are better these days, but HIV is still a death sentence. What did I expect? Did I really think I could go into something like this and emerge unscathed?

I'd like to say it was all worth it. That those nights with Roger's arms around me, the pillow fights after sex, the simple feeling of companionship as I'd rest my head against his shoulder while we watched TV make everything seem all right. Loving Roger was the best thing that ever happened to me. Was it worth the agony he put me through when we fought? Absolutely. Was it worth the disapproval of my family? Without a doubt? Was it worth losing the rest of my life? No chance in hell.

Was I really that naïve? Did I honestly think I could have a sexual relationship with a man who was HIV positive, and manage to escape contracting the virus myself? Of course we'd taken precautions--I'd insisted on them--but nothing was a hundred percent safe. I knew that, but I'd chosen to ignore it, hoping that love would be enough to keep me safe.

Let this be a lesson to you, Mark Cohen, I told myself. Love isn't everything. Love doesn't conquer all. At least, it doesn't conquer AIDS. Not for me.

Roger's long gone by now. We broke up two months ago, when he regrouped his band and traveled out west. They're in Las Vegas now, playing at some casino. I get an occasional postcard from him, but I know we're through, even though it hasn't been said in so many words. He's found what he's looking for, and I'm happy for him. I honestly am.

Which is great for him, but doesn't do much for me. It's my own stupid fault, I tell myself. I knew what I was getting into. I knew I was practically committing suicide the first time I went to bed with Roger. But no one made me do it. You're a big boy, Mark, I tell myself. You made those choices, and now you live with the consequences.

If I had any guts at all, I'd take the same route that April did. But I'm a coward, so I'll remain here behind my camera, recording the last months of my life and playing them back on film. When you're dying in America, you're all alone. 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I didn't think I would continue this, but I got inspired. This is going to be a short little thing, with just one more chapter after this one. Enjoy! --Larissa  
  
I flew out as soon as I got off the phone with Maureen. Las Vegas paid decently, but last minute plane fare was fucking expensive. I put it on my credit card and told myself I'd worry about the cost later. That didn't matter right now. The only thing that mattered was Mark.  
  
The only flight they could get me on made two stops, in Chicago and in Cleveland, which was annoying as hell, but there wasn't much I could do about it at this point. It gave me a lot of time to think, in any case. About what I'd left behind. About what Maureen had screamed over the phone at me. About what I was about to face when I got off the plane in New York.  
  
He has AIDS, you stupid shit! He's dying!  
  
I'd known Maureen a long time, but I'd never heard her that mad before. She'd called up out of the blue, insisted I fly back to New York, and went apeshit on me when I said I couldn't possibly get away at the moment. She said this was all my fault, and I didn't even have the balls to come back and face what I'd done. When I lost my temper and demanded to know what the fuck was going on, she told me.  
  
Mark had AIDS. Had had it for months, in fact. He hadn't been taking his AZT, and now he was in the hospital with pneumonia.  
  
A narrow airplane seat was not the best place to be struggling with a mixture of guilt and rage, I thought to myself, squirming uncomfortably. Maureen was right. This was my fault. I'd killed Mark, just as if I'd wrapped my fingers around his throat and squeezed until there was no life left in him. Mark had AIDS, and I was the one who'd given it to him.  
  
I was mad at myself, all right. Why had I gone along with this? Why had I put my selfish pleasures above Mark's health? Oh, I was fucking pissed. But I was also furious with Mark. After everything I'd been through after my own diagnosis, all of Mark's nagging to take my AZT, and eat something, and take care of my health, what did he do? Get sick, for one. Land himself in the hospital. Practically kill himself.  
  
"Oh, no, you don't," I muttered to myself, not caring that the gray- haired woman sitting to the left of me was staring at me in alarm. Mark hadn't let me self-destruct. I was hardly about to let him do it to himself.  
  
After what felt like forever, the plane finally landed in New York. I sprinted through LaGuardia to the street, where I flagged down a cab, giving the driver an extra twenty to get me to the hospital as fast as possible. Mark's room was on the eighth floor, they told me at the front desk. By this point, I was too worked up to wait even thirty seconds for the elevator, so I tore up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time.  
  
I'm coming, Mark, I tried to tell him. Just hold on.  
  
When I burst out onto the eighth floor, the first thing I saw was my friends, huddled together at the end of the hall. Joanne was hugging Maureen to her, and it looked like they were both crying. This didn't look good.  
  
"Hi." If any of them seemed surprised by my appearance, they didn't show it. "How's Mark?"  
  
Maureen glared fiercely at me. "You fucking bastard."  
  
"What?" I protested. "I came as soon as I could."  
  
"Oh, Roger." Collins looked at me sympathetically. "Mark died half an hour ago." 


End file.
